With an invited international group of curators, this show emphasizes the relationship between curator and artist— muse muse, a muse muse, muse amuse, muse muse muse—the alliteration itself is almost inspiring.

While the trope of the artist and muse evokes a dusty and nostalgic image of classical inspiration, as conveyed by an artist such as Jean-Léon Gérôme’s in his 1890 Pygmalion and Galatea, or in the idea of bohemian artists working all night high in a garret under the almost divine inspiration of genius and ego, this show refocuses the concept of muse to directly display the real, transformative, and raw link between curator and artist, between artist and curator. This is the essential relationship upon which this show revolves. It is almost a reflection, perhaps not clear, perhaps distorted, or enigmatic.

Why? Why?

We could contextualize this relationship in that of the rise of the edit, or the selection, as a mode that characterizes the late-twentieth or 21st century with digital technology, social media, yadda, yadda... yadda. But that seems a bit boring, and perhaps, even, blasé blasé.

Instead, we see this relationship—muse muse—as intimate, maybe not rational, maybe not distinct, or evident. But it is transformative, in both ways—curator, artist—artist, curator—and then it veers toward us, the viewer. It is an opening, a portal, a look into some private space upon which identities are built, and shared, problematized, or redefined. This is the Étant donnés of the muse muse. Its wings are the peep hole in the old wooden door, and what is beyond. It transcends what you see someone posted what they had for lunch.